


Golden Ticket

by earlgreytea68



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Willy Wonka AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 07:06:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7967191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/pseuds/earlgreytea68
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur's nephew Charlie finds a golden ticket and wins a tour of the Eames Chocolate Factory. </p>
<p>Yes, it's a story you already know, but this version has a lot more making out in edible gardens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Golden Ticket

**Author's Note:**

> Willy Wonka AU!, or How I Chose to Spend My Long Weekend, by EGT. 
> 
> Thank you to all of the many Inception chats that helped inspire this fic and also helped move it along through sprinting.

“How many chocolate bars have you bought, Uncle Arthur?” Charlie looked wide-eyed across Arthur’s paper-covered desk.

“Chocolate bars?” Arthur said blankly, trying to focus on his nephew instead of the distressing e-mail he’d just received. Really, Arthur adored Charlie, but he wished his sister could be a little more responsible than to just drop him off whenever she pleased, as if Arthur had a job that a ten-year-old boy felt like sitting around watching him do on a Saturday night. 

Charlie immediately groaned and flopped backward in his chair. “ _Uncle Arthur_!” he said, in his why-are-you-so-hopeless tone. “Chocolate bars! You don’t know about this? _Everybody_ knows about this. Everybody in the universe.” 

“Really?” said Arthur drily. “The aliens? The aliens in the next galaxy over are worrying about chocolate bars?” 

Charlie, as had been Arthur’s objective, giggled. For some reason Charlie thought Arthur was hilarious, and always had. Whereas Angelina, Arthur’s sister and Charlie’s mother, had always thought he was, in her charming words, “a goddamn stick in the mud nobody would ever want to fuck.” But Charlie—Charlie who had been, in Angelina’s again-charming parlance, “a horrible fucking mistake”—Charlie was Arthur’s favorite person on the planet, and not just because he laughed at Arthur’s jokes, although it was nice to think that maybe Arthur was, in return, one of Charlie’s favorite people. Arthur’s life was a job he detested and a landlady who thought he was a convenient handyman (and Arthur was nobody’s idea of a handyman) and a neighbor who insisted on having very loud sex to the sound of very loud flute music, and Charlie. When you had a light like Charlie, it really did make up for the rest of it, thought Arthur fondly, watching Charlie giggle. 

Then Charlie said, “Google Eames and the golden tickets.”

“Eames,” Arthur repeated, obediently Googling. “What are they up to? You know they’re a firm client?”

“They are?”

“Yeah, we represent lots of big companies like—”

Charlie frowned. “No, I meant Eames _the person_.” 

“The person?” Arthur echoed. “There isn’t any such person.” 

“There must be,” Charlie said. “Who’s the company named for?”

“It’s just a…It’s just a name. I don’t know, I’ve never seen this Eames person.” 

“Nobody has. Isn’t that dramatic? _Nobody has_. And now he’s giving away _golden tickets_.” 

Arthur was looking at the news stories. Actually he was looking at many pages of news stories, all about these golden tickets. “What are these tickets for?” he said, clicking on one of the stories at random. 

“To take a tour of his factory. No one’s ever been inside.”

Arthur looked at Charlie, who was solemn across Arthur’s crowded desk. “Well. That can’t be true,” Arthur pointed out gently. 

“It’s true!” Charlie protested. 

“Someone’s got to be inside. Who’s making all the chocolate?”

Charlie considered, chewing on his lower lip. “Aliens,” he decided. 

Ariadne, the lawyer in the office next door, stuck her head in and said, “Hiya, Charlie, kiddo,” smiling broadly. Charlie was a frequent visitor to the firm. 

“Hi, Ariadne,” Charlie chorused back. 

Arthur said, “Hey, Ari, you work on stuff for Eames, right?” 

Ari made an eloquent noise. “Yes, and it has been _non-stop_ lately with this golden ticket stuff.”

Charlie shot Arthur a look as if to say, _See? Everybody knows about the golden tickets!_

“Have you ever met Eames?” Arthur asked.

“Not Eames the person. Nobody has. He doesn’t leave the factory.” 

Charlie was practically bouncing off the chair in his triumph. 

“He’s a recluse?” 

Ariadne shrugged. “I guess. I think he’s eccentric.” 

“Isn’t it true that no one’s ever been inside the factory?” Charlie asked eagerly. 

“Well,” said Ariadne, “Eames has got to be inside, right?”

“Other than Eames.” 

“That’s right. Other than Eames, no one’s ever been inside.”

“How does he do business?” Arthur asked, exasperated.

Ariadne gave him a look. “E-mail, Arthur. It’s the twenty-first century. Anyway, I have got to run, I was supposed to be in Cobb’s office five minutes ago. Good luck, Charlie! I hope you get a ticket!” 

“Bye, Ari,” Arthur said absently, glancing back at the news stories, and then realized that Charlie hadn’t said good-bye to Ariadne. Arthur looked at him. Charlie looked glum, sunk down low in his chair. “Hey,” Arthur said, surprised. “What’s up?” 

“I’m never going to find a golden ticket,” said Charlie miserably. 

“Okay,” said Arthur. “Probably not. I mean, Charlie, the odds are—”

Charlie sniffled, wiping at his nose. “Mom won’t even let me buy a chocolate bar. She says it’s a stupid thing to be wasting money on.” 

“Your mom says that?” said Arthur. Charlie’s mother, who was out right now at some club spending God only knew how much money on alcohol. Although maybe she just got guys to buy it for her all night. Arthur didn’t know. 

What Arthur knew was that Charlie was at that tenuous age between childhood and adulthood, when the world had become the most confusing and uncomfortable place, and Arthur didn’t want to say that it would be that way for the rest of his life, but it really _did_ remain a more confusing and uncomfortable place than Arthur would have liked, and Arthur wished he could fend that off for Charlie, keep Charlie the small trusting boy who hadn’t seemed to notice how much his mother didn’t care about him, who had had a small store room of smiles that he handed out indiscriminately. 

So Arthur fended it off by bringing Charlie a chocolate bar the next time he stopped by Angelina’s, to pick up Charlie to whisk him off to get a haircut, because that was the kind of thing Angelina never thought to do. 

“Oh, good,” Angelina said when she opened the door on Arthur. “Charlie!” she shouted into the house. “Arthur’s here!” She turned back to Arthur. “Thank Christ, I could not take him another minute.” She blew some cigarette smoke into Arthur’s eye. 

“Charming,” Arthur told her. 

“Hey. You try dealing with him all the time. He always wants, like, food and drinks and, like, _clothes_ , God, where does he get this idea he has to wear clean clothes every day? Does he get it from you?” 

“I think he gets it from society at large,” said Arthur, as Charlie came down the stairs. “Hello there,” Arthur said, and ruffled his hair. “Ready to get this mop styled attractively?” 

“I guess,” said Charlie. 

“That doesn’t sound like the Charlie I know and love,” remarked Arthur. “I know what’ll cheer you up.” Arthur produced the Eames chocolate bar with a flourish, waving it around in front of Charlie. 

Angelina scoffed in disgust. “Arthur, really, you spoil the kid. Chocolate and haircuts, it’s ridiculous.” 

Arthur ignored her, as Charlie took the chocolate bar. “Open it,” Arthur encouraged, hoping to win a smile out of Charlie. “Maybe you’ll find a golden ticket.” 

“They found the last one this morning,” Charlie said, and he smiled tremulously at Arthur. “But it’s okay.” His voice was tear-laden but steady. “It’s really nice of you to get me the chocolate bar. Can I save it for later?”

“Yeah,” Arthur said. He felt weirdly close to tears on Charlie’s behalf. It wasn’t like he’d really thought Charlie was going to find a golden ticket, but…yeah. “Save it for later,” he said, and ruffled Charlie’s hair again. 

Charlie pressed close to Arthur in a hug, his face against Arthur’s chest, and Charlie wasn’t a touchy-feely kid—Angelina had probably punished it out of him—so Arthur knew he was way more devastated than he wanted to let on. A stupid thing to get excited about, Arthur thought, and yet one of those things that a dreamy, optimistic kid couldn’t help but think might happen to him. Fucking Eames and his fucking golden tickets. Whoever the guy was, Arthur hated him. 

He dropped a kiss on the top of Charlie’s head. 

Angelina said, “What the fuck, grow up, Charlie, it was a fucking chocolate factory tour. You’d think it was the fucking Super Bowl or something.”

***

Arthur took Charlie to get his haircut. And then, afterward, he took Charlie out for a burger and fries. And it was while they were at the diner that Arthur saw the news story on the television, about the last ticket being a hoax, about one more golden ticket still being up for grabs. 

Arthur looked at Charlie, devouring his cheeseburger, and thought of the chocolate bar still in Charlie’s pocket. He thought of telling Charlie the news about the hoax. And then he thought that was ridiculous. Charlie still wasn’t going to win a golden ticket, and Arthur was just going to get his hopes up again for nothing. 

***

Arthur was running late for six different meetings, had three red-exclamation-pointed e-mails he was supposed to be dealing with, and could not seem to get his fucking stapler to work, what the actual _fuck_ —

His desk phone rang and he picked it up with a bark of, “What?”

“Your nephew’s down here to see you,” said the voice on the other end. 

Arthur paused. “What? Who’s this?”

“This is security down in the lobby. Is this Arthur?”

“Yeah.” 

“Yeah, your nephew’s here.”

Charlie never came to see him, unannounced, at work. How had Charlie even _gotten_ there?

Panicked, Arthur forgot about everything else he was supposed to be doing, including the fucking stapler, and went immediately down to the lobby. 

Charlie was standing, looking very small in the middle of the vast marble expanse. Arthur said a quick thank you to security and took Charlie aside, crouching a little to be on his level.

“Hey,” he said. “You okay? Everything alright?” 

“Yeah,” Charlie answered. He looked…strange. Not entirely a bad strange, but definitely strange. “Can I talk to you?” 

“I…Yeah. Of course. How’d you get here?” 

“You’ll be mad if I tell you. I just really needed to talk to you, Uncle Arthur. Please can we go somewhere to talk?”

Charlie looked vaguely frantic now, so Arthur just ushered him into the elevator and then into his office. 

Charlie closed the door.

Arthur lifted his eyebrows in alarm. 

“So,” Charlie said, taking a deep breath. 

“Charlie,” Arthur said, a little more sharply than he’d intended, but _Jesus Christ_. “What’s going on? Is your mom okay? Are you in trouble?”

Charlie, his hand visibly trembling, reached into his pocket and pulled out a golden ticket. 

***

“I mean, I always knew Charlie would win the golden ticket,” Angelina was saying excitedly to the reporter. “I bought him so many chocolate bars, it was just a matter of time. Right, sweetheart?” Angelina gave Charlie the most adoring look for the television cameras.

Charlie looked a little overwhelmed. Arthur didn’t blame him. “Actually, it was Uncle Arthur who—”

“Anyway,” said Angelina brightly, “I am just so excited about this whole thing. I cannot wait to meet this mysterious Eames. I bet he’s hot.” Angelina curled a strand of hair around a finger and winked into one of the cameras.

Arthur was sitting on the other side of Charlie, because Charlie had insisted and Arthur thought it was terrifying enough to have a dozen cameras suddenly thrust in your face, he could totally sit next to Charlie and be helpful and supportive during it. Things he had doubted Angelina was going to be. And he had been proven correct. Arthur gave Charlie’s hand a comforting squeeze. Charlie looked at him and smiled.

“There’s been a lot of speculation that Eames is actually ancient,” shouted one of the reporters.

“Hey, old guys can still be hot,” said Angelina confidently. 

“What do you think you’ll wear for the factory tour?” asked another reporter, clearly hoping for an answer that was something like _lingerie_. 

Probably Angelina would oblige there, thought Arthur sardonically. 

Except that Charlie said, “She’s not going on the tour with me.”

Angelina, in the middle of saying, “Well, I was thinking—” got cut off by the reporter nearest Charlie, who said, “What was that, Charlie?” 

The room suddenly fell silent. 

Charlie, with everybody’s attention on him, licked his lips and said, “She’s not going with me.” 

There was another moment of silence. 

“Well, you’ve got to have an adult go with you,” said one of the reporters. “It’s on the ticket—”

“My uncle Arthur’s coming with me,” said Charlie. 

Which was the first Arthur had heard of this. He looked at Charlie, startled.

Charlie continued firmly, “My uncle Arthur bought me the chocolate bar and he buys me haircuts and all of my clothes and lot of my meals and my uncle Arthur’s coming with me to the chocolate factory.” 

Arthur stared down at Charlie in shock. It was all _true_ , but… He could feel Angelina’s murderous gaze on him. He could feel every single television camera and every single reporter suddenly turning in his direction.

“Arthur,” one of them said. “Are you excited for the factory tour?” 

***

Arthur had toiled at his law firm in relative obscurity for ten years. In the span of ten seconds, he suddenly became Someone. The managing partner and the leadership council took him to lunch and made him take notes on all the things he was supposed to learn during the chocolate factory tour. Important things they needed to know for representational purposes that Eames had always refused to tell them. 

Arthur had no intention of taking advantage of Eames’s hospitality to steal Eames’s trade secrets but Arthur also knew that he wanted to keep his job, so he’d have to make something up.

Dom Cobb said, his eyes shining, “Be like a parasite.” 

“Like a…what?” said Arthur. 

“Like a parasite in Eames’s factory.” 

“That…” Sounded like the least attractive thing in the universe. “Okay,” said Arthur. 

On the day of the factory tour, Arthur dressed very carefully in his very best suit. It was a lovely suit, and yet Arthur wasn’t sure it was nearly nice enough for international television, which would be covering the entry to the tour. Arthur wished he’d had enough money for one of the gorgeous designer suits his mouth always watered over when he tortured himself by reading fashion blogs, but he couldn’t justify the splurge when there was Charlie, who needed things right now and a college education eventually someday. 

Eames was giving them a factory tour, he could have sprung for a scholarship or something, thought Arthur, as he slicked his hair back. But there, he looked…presentable enough. Anyway, the day was really about Charlie. 

Arthur had bought Charlie new clothes for the factory tour. Charlie _had_ deserved the splurge, and it had only been a minor splurge anyway. He was beaming with unabashed joy and happiness when Arthur arrived to pick him up. 

Angelina was not dressed and was sitting sulkily on the couch, smoking a cigarette. “I don’t get why the fuck I have such an ungrateful child,” she said. “Like, what did I do to deserve such a brat?”

“Mom,” Charlie said pleadingly, “it’s just that Uncle Arthur—”

“Oh, shut the fuck up about _Arthur_ ,” Angelina shot back. “Why is everyone _so fucking obsessed_ with stupid Arthur? What’s so great about you anyway?” Angelina demanded of Arthur. “I mean, look at you. Look at your _life_. You don’t even have a life. You have _my_ kid who you’re taking on _my_ factory tour. Fucking loser.”

“Mom,” Charlie chastised, as if Arthur needed defending on his behalf. 

“Hey,” Arthur interrupted him softly. “Wait outside for a second, I’ll be right there.”

Charlie, after a look from Arthur, obeyed. 

Arthur looked over at Angelina, who looked unimpressed and lit another cigarette.

“You’re right,” Arthur said. “I’m a fucking loser. I don’t know what I’ve been doing with my life. I should have petitioned to take Charlie away from you a lot sooner, but I kept thinking maybe you’d come to your sense about what a great kid you have. But you’re an idiot. He’s great, and today he’s going to see a fucking chocolate factory, and to him this is the most exciting thing in the world, and somehow you’ve made this about you, and you know what? Don’t worry about Charlie anymore. I’ll take care of him. He won’t be coming back here after the factory tour.” 

Angelina stared. “You think you can just…Fuck you.” 

“Yup,” said Arthur tightly, and walked out of the house. 

***

There were four other golden ticket winners. One was a kid from Germany named Augustus. Arthur didn’t speak German, so other than a vague hello, there wasn’t much to talk about there. The other three were all English-speakers—Veruca, Violet, and Mike were the kids’ names—but the parents were having such a vapid conversation that Arthur wished they weren’t speaking a language he understood. 

The atmosphere around the Eames Chocolate Factory was festive. There was a band playing relentlessly upbeat and cheerful songs. There was a huge throng of people waving banners and cheering. There was a large police presence making sure none of the celebrations got out-of-hand. A chocolate factory, Arthur thought. This was all to see a fucking chocolate factory. 

“Uncle Arthur,” said Charlie, tugging on Arthur’s hand. 

Arthur leaned down a bit so he could hear him.

“Thanks for buying me the chocolate bar,” Charlie said, smiling a little shyly. “I don’t think I ever really thanked you.” 

Arthur smiled back. “Thank you for asking me to come along on this. Are you excited?” 

Charlie nodded enthusiastically. “I think it’s going to be awesome. I think Eames is going to be awesome.”

What Eames was was late. The clock struck eleven and nothing happened. There was murmuring from the crowd. Veruca’s father strained so much to see something beyond the gates of the Eames Chocolate Factory that he fell over onto Arthur’s lap. And didn’t even apologize, but whatever. 

By 11:05 the crowd’s murmuring had begun to grow impatient. Next to him Charlie was fidgeting. If this all some kind of fucking hoax, thought Arthur darkly, he was going to track down whoever this Eames guy was and—

The factory door opened, and a man stepped out. A man dressed in poorly fitting trousers and a hideous paisley shirt. _That_? Arthur thought incredulously. _That_ was Eames, the man in charge of all the chocolate? 

Maybe not, he thought. Maybe that was Eames’s emissary or something. 

The crowd had fallen so silent you could have heard a pin drop. What you could hear was the man’s cane tapping along the cobblestones as he made his way to the factory gates. It was a slow and agonizing journey, the process arduous, and it gave Arthur plenty of time to take in more details about the man. He was using the cane and walking very slowly, yes, but he didn’t seem old. Maybe it was an old injury? What he seemed was…well-built. Alarmingly attractive chest hidden under all that paisley. That really didn’t seem fair, Arthur thought. He really had never suspected Angelina might be right in her assessment that Eames was hot. 

His hair was brown and slicked back. His lips were—

Arthur didn’t get to finish his assessment of Eames’s lips because suddenly Eames’s cane got stuck. Eames walked a step beyond it, wobbled, the crowd let out a collective gasp of anxiety, and then Eames executed a perfect somersault, leaping to his feet, holding out his arms, and bowing, looking very pleased with himself. 

The crowd went wild. Beside Arthur, Charlie cheered and whistled with the rest of them. 

“Well, that was a bit showy, wasn’t it?” remarked Arthur.

Charlie was grinning. “Oh, come on, it was awesome!”

The factory gates were swinging open and the police were ushering through them the holders of the golden tickets. Charlie clutched his tight in his hand as they waited for the rest to go through. Eames, cane apparently no longer needed, was busy greeting each of the ticket holders.

Eventually it was Charlie’s turn. Eames held out his hand and Charlie handed across his ticket nervously and Eames held it up to the sun and examined it, frowning.

“Hmm,” he said. “I _suppose_ it’s genuine.” 

Charlie made a small squeaking noise. 

Eames lowered the ticket and grinned. “Just kidding. It’s obviously genuine. I’m Eames.” 

“I’m Charlie,” said Charlie, as Eames shook his head.

“I know. I saw you on the telly.”

“This is my uncle Arthur.”

“Uncle Arthur,” said Eames, shaking Arthur’s hand. “I saw you on the telly as well.” He winked.

Arthur did not believe in instant attraction. Arthur had never really experienced it before. Arthur had found people mildly attractive at first glance, and Arthur had, after getting to know a person, come to find some people extraordinarily attractive, but Arthur looked at Eames, whose eyes were a clear blue-green-gray that made Arthur want to go swimming, whose mouth had a lower lip so obscene Arthur thought it was probably why Eames wasn’t allowed to go out in public, Eames whose hand was holding Arthur’s and felt vaguely electrified to him, and Arthur wanted to press him up against the wall of the factory right there and drop to his knees. 

Which was the most startlingly inappropriate thought, Arthur thought, horrified, that anyone had ever had in the history of time. 

Eames lifted his eyebrows. Arthur became painfully aware that his hand was still in Eames’s, that there was a huge crowd staring at them, including his ten-year-old nephew. 

So Arthur said the stupidest thing ever. “You’re British.”

Eames laughed, gorgeously, which made Arthur feel like he had to squirm a little bit. “I’ve been called many things. That is one of them. Now.” Eames finally dropped Arthur’s hand and turned to the rest of the assembled group. “Ready to go inside? Here we go. This way.” Eames led the way, pausing at the factory door. “Wave to everyone. It may be the last time you ever see them.” 

There was a moment of stunned silence. 

Eames grinned. “Only joking, come inside.”

Charlie said reverently, eyes shining, “I think he’s _crazy_.” 

“I think he’s an idiot,” huffed Arthur, thrown by, well, _everything_. But Eames was definitely an annoying idiot who Arthur definitely wanted to fuck him in the near future. 

***

The first room was nothing but an enormous piece of parchment up on the wall. Arthur read the first legible paragraph with lifted eyebrows. He couldn’t read the rest of the paragraphs because they faded into tiny-print oblivion. 

“That’s a contract,” said Violet’s father, who apparently was a fan of stating the obvious. 

“Brilliantly spotted,” said Eames, and Arthur suspected he’d had the same thought. “It’s a contract. Step right up, little sprogs, and sign your lives away.”

“But you can’t even read it,” protested Veruca’s father. “How do we know what we’re agreeing to?” 

Eames looked bored. “Fine. If you don’t want to sign the contract, don’t sign the contract. But then you don’t get to tour the factory.” 

“I want to tour the factory,” Veruca announced, and clambered away from her father’s grasping arms to sign the contract. 

The other children followed.

Charlie hesitated and looked at Arthur. 

“Sign it,” Arthur said, and gave him an encouraging smile. 

He caught Eames looking at him and didn’t know what to make of it. He did know it flustered him, those blue-green-gray eyes across the room. They felt heated, but Arthur didn’t know if that was the weirdly overactive imagination he seemed to have where Eames was concerned. 

***

The rest of the people on the tour seemed to be in an oddly advanced state of panic for people who were just going on a chocolate factory tour. They immediately commenced to freaking out about everything, including a fucking _elevator_. These people needed to get out more, thought Arthur. 

And then Arthur, along with everyone else, got his first glimpse of Eames’s amazing totally edible garden, and every cynical thought Arthur had ever had about this entire situation faded. It was odd—then again, maybe it wasn’t. Maybe in the face of sweets literally growing on trees, maybe you just ceased being a skeptical, rational adult and became, simply, a kid again. 

It was glorious, exploring the garden, with Charlie at first, as they shared their discoveries, and then Charlie got distracted by some strands of licorice, which Arthur didn’t care for, and Arthur found himself following a trail of butterscotch-flavored buttercups. The buttercups ended in a little clearing of grass at the other side of which was a gorgeous tree that looked as if it had literal whipped cream flowers. 

Curious, Arthur stepped carefully over the grass, which crunched underfoot. What was it? he wondered idly. Spun sugar? He would have felt guiltier about destroying it except he was fascinated by the flowers. Up close, he realized they weren’t whipped cream. They were gorgeously sculpted out of frosting. They were beautiful works of art. 

“You can eat them, you know,” said a voice behind Arthur. 

Arthur turned from his close contemplation of the frosting flowers. 

Eames was standing behind him, lounging really, leaning on the cane that he was clearly using as a prop at this point. His obscene mouth was twisted into a smirk that shouldn’t have been attractive. 

Arthur looked away from him because looking at Eames for too long was like looking at the sun. He said, “They’re beautiful.”

“Right,” Eames agreed, and his voice sounded like it was getting closer. “But they’re delicious.” Yes, Eames was now right behind him, leaned forward and swiped a finger into the nearest frosting flower. His chest brushed against Arthur’s arm as he leaned forward to do it, impossibly hot. Arthur caught his breath to keep from making a strangled helpless noise. 

Eames stuck his finger in his mouth and spent way too long swirling his tongue around it and sucking enthusiastically, moaning ecstatically. Everything about this should have been ridiculous, and it was, and it was also the hottest thing Arthur had ever seen, and his mouth was dry and his hands were clenched into fists to keep from reaching for Eames and his breath was ragged, being torn out of his lungs. Everything about keeping Arthur upright and away from Eames at that moment was the most difficult thing Arthur had ever done. 

“It’s good,” Eames said, his voice low and raspy, his finger finally out of his mouth. They were standing so close that Arthur could make out the individual flecks of colors in Eames’s eyes, as they darted down to look at Arthur’s lips. “You should try it.”

Arthur was pretty sure they were now closer together than they had been a second before. So Arthur, in a desperate swipe at self-preservation and respectability and dignity, said, “Your contract is completely unenforceable.” 

Eames blinked, and then Eames laughed. He didn’t step away from Arthur, he just looked at him with his eyes bright with what looked like delight. Something about it was more potent than being looked at with heated intent, something about it made Arthur feel light-headed. Here was a man who had a literal garden made out of candy and he was looking as if _Arthur_ was the delightful thing. “Is it now?”

“It’s…” Arthur struggled to grasp all of his flyaway thoughts. The thoughts about the contract, not the thoughts about what Eames’s mouth would feel like on various parts of his body. “You couldn’t even read it, you can’t bind people to things they don’t have adequate notice of, it’s unconscionable.” 

“You could have just turned around and left,” Eames pointed out. “You didn’t _have_ to tour my magical, once-in-a-lifetime-opportunity chocolate factory.” 

“And you only had the kids sign it. The _kids_. Contracts with minors are voidable, you know.” 

“Unless they’re for necessary items,” said Eames gravely. “I think my chocolate factory is a necessary item.” 

Arthur registered the arguments Eames was making. “Wait. You know about this. Are you a lawyer?” 

“You really call me the dirtiest names,” said Eames, looking amused. “Keep going, I love it.” 

Arthur could feel his lips twitching, basically of their own volition. “Asshole,” he said. 

“Perfect,” said Eames, smiling as well, swiping another finger into another buttercream frosting rose. He held his finger up, wagging it at Arthur. “You really won’t give this a try?” 

Arthur lifts an eyebrow. “Off your finger?” 

“Well, it _is_ right there,” said Eames innocently. 

Arthur studied Eames. This was a dare, he thought. This was a dare and Eames didn’t think he was going to take it. Eames was being completely outrageous and he thought Arthur, with his staid suit and his talk of contracts, was going to take a step back, was going to do the responsible thing. A sudden bright recklessness flared to life inside of Arthur. He’d done the responsible thing basically since being born. He was standing in the middle of an edible garden with some sexy chocolate-making recluse in front of him and maybe it was time to embrace the unreality of this situation. 

Arthur closed his hand around Eames’s wrist, startling Eames into a gasp, and Arthur licked Eames’s finger into his mouth. Arthur curled his tongue around Eames’s finger, Arthur drew it in further, Arthur hollowed out his cheeks and sucked, Arthur had no fucking idea what the buttercream tasted like but he was vividly aware of what _Eames_ tasted like, of how dark his gray-green-blue eyes had gone, of the way his lower lip, parted from the upper lip, was bowing forward like an invitation. 

Arthur drew Eames’s finger out of his mouth slowly, wetly, thoroughly obscenely. Maybe it should have been ridiculous, but Arthur didn’t feel ridiculous. Arthur’s entire body was thrumming like a tightly drawn string that had been plucked, he wanted to vibrate his way over to Eames, to press up against him, to bite at that taunting lower lip. 

“Fuck,” Eames said thickly, swaying a little on his feet, and then suddenly reached his hands out, hooked them into the lapels of Arthur’s coat, and hauled him in for a kiss. 

It was a filthy, possessive battle of a kiss, harder and sharper than any kiss Arthur had ever had before, and Arthur loved it, Arthur _relished_ it. He wasn’t sure how it happened, if Eames stumbled or did it on purpose or if Arthur shoved him, but suddenly Eames was sprawled underneath him on the spun-sugar grass and Arthur was straddling his hips and sucking on his tongue and rubbing against Eames, long slow thrusts designed to try to maximize the friction through the layers between them. 

Eames’s hands were tight in Arthur’s hair, holding him into place while Eames licked into Arthur’s mouth again and again and again, Arthur trying to gasp for air in between the onslaughts, Eames’s hips rocking up to meet his thrusts, Arthur felt dizzy and desperate and like he never wanted to stop kissing Eames, like he had been put entirely on the planet to…kiss…Eames…

The shouting penetrated slowly through the haze of his brain, finally too much to ignore. He managed to lift his head away from Eames. 

Eames, panting for breath under him, put his hands on Arthur’s hips, stilling him. 

Arthur tried to peer around them toward the source of the disturbance but they were well-sheltered by candy trees, what the fuck was his _life_. 

Eames said breathlessly, “Fuck, are they shouting for me?” 

And now that he mentioned it, it did sound like frantic choruses of _Mr. Eames! Mr. Eames!_

Arthur, dazed, rolled off of Eames and tried to take stock of what had just happened. What were his life _choices_?

Eames sat up, swiping a hand through his hair, which was pointless, because Eames looked as thoroughly wrecked as a person could look and still not have an orgasm. 

“Coming!” Eames shouted through the garden at the escalating cries. He got to his feet and gave a humorless chuckle, watching his hands re-fasten his trousers. “Actually, I am _not_ coming,” he mumbled, and then gave Arthur a quick smile. 

Arthur was staring at Eames’s unbuckled belt. Had he done that? When had he accomplished that? What had he been _thinking_?

“Stay here,” Eames said to Arthur. “Hold all of these good thoughts in your head.” Eames gestured around the little clearing. 

“We can’t have sex in a candy garden,” Arthur hissed, scandalized at himself. 

“Now, darling, I think you’re being hasty in your assessment of proper places for sex—”

“Mr. Eames!” Veruca suddenly came dashing down the path, brimming over with delight. “Augustus has fallen into the chocolate river!” 

***

Eames, standing on the banks of his chocolate river watching Augustus get caught in the pipe, frowned thunderously. But _really_. Could a chocolate-factory-owner not ask for two uninterrupted minutes to make out with the delicious bit of hotness that had just been dropped in his lap without a foolish child falling into a chocolate river? 

“He’s going to die!” wailed Augustus’s mother. 

“He isn’t going to die,” snapped Eames. “For fuck’s sake, if he didn’t know how to swim, why was he close enough to fall in in the first place?” 

“He wanted to drink from it,” sobbed Augustus’s mother. 

“There’s a million other forms of chocolate here,” said Eames. “That’s like standing on the banks of the Thames with a bottle of water and thinking, Oh, no, I’ll just dip my hand in over there and lick some polluted bits off. Christ.” 

He was aware that everyone was staring at him, except for Arthur, who was the only person he wanted staring at him. But it wasn’t like Eames had the opportunity for much action, and it wasn’t like Eames ever met people who looked like Arthur and who also looked _at_ him the way Arthur did and who also was clever and a little bit of an arsehole and made Eames laugh and this fucking Augustus kid was a cockblock. Actually, every person there who wasn’t Arthur was a cockblock, and Eames ought to pay all of them off to leave without the rest of the tour, except Arthur, who would stay of course, and Charlie, who would also stay and obviously be given the run of the factory. 

Arthur said quietly, “I’m sure that Eames has a plan for getting Augustus back.” Arthur finally looked at Eames, his dark eyes even and knowing. “Don’t you?” Arthur’s kiss-provoked flush had receded, but there was still a little pinkness in places that Eames thought might have been stubble burn and his lips still looked slightly swollen and his hair had been destroyed by Eames’s hands and was, freed from its gel, curling slightly over Arthur’s forehead. His hair was tumbled boyish waves. Eames, momentarily distracted by it, thought, _yes_ , he had to have a plan, he had to do everything he could to make sure this absolutely fantastic man thought he was impressive. 

“Mr. Eames?” said Violet’s father. 

“He’s a daft idiot,” was Veruca’s father’s pronouncement. 

Eames shook himself out of Arthur’s gaze and looked at Augustus’s mother. “Yes. A plan. I’ll have the Oompa Loompas deal with him.” 

“The what?” said Arthur. 

“The Oompa Loompas,” said Eames. “It’s what I call my workers.”

“Why don’t you just call them employees?” 

“Because this is a chocolate factory,” said Eames, and blew on his whistle to summon some Oompa Loompas. 

Arthur said, “And you call your employees with a _whistle_?” 

Eames, who had never really stopped to think if that was odd, hesitated. “Yes?” 

“This is such a _painfully whimsical_ chocolate factory,” said Arthur. Like that was a _bad_ thing. 

Some Oompa Loompas arrived. Eames said, “A boy fell in the river and got stuck in the tube and anyway, I think he’s in the fudge room. Can you locate him and return him to his mother? Careful, he can’t swim, apparently.” 

The Oompa Loompas, whose main recommendation was that they never questioned the odd things that happened around Eames, nodded gravely and led Augustus’s sobbing mother away. 

After a moment of silence, during which everyone looked after the departed Oompa Loompas and Eames looked at Arthur, Mike’s mother said, “What do you have all over your back?” 

“Spun sugar,” answered Eames truthfully. 

“Were you rolling around in it?” she asked, clearly disapproving. 

“Yes,” said Eames, enjoying the fact that Arthur was blushing to the tips of his ears. 

“Well,” said Arthur loudly, “this has been a really great tour—”

“Oh, we have just begun. You cannot leave before you ride my beautiful Eamesboat.” Eames gestured to the boat that was now happily chugging up the chocolate river. 

“It’s a boat,” said Arthur. 

“It’s an Eamesboat,” Eames corrected him. 

“What makes it an Eamesboat?” 

“Sorry, all questions must be submitted in writing at the end of the tour,” Eames said, as the boat docked. “Step right up, everybody. Now we go on a sea voyage.”

Veruca stepped onto the boat, turning up her nose and informing Eames that she had seen _much_ bigger boats. Mike said they were bigger on television. Violet kept chewing her gun. 

Charlie, along among the children, looked excited. Eames, ostensibly paying attention to his other guests but really attuned to everything Arthur did, heard Charlie say, “A boat, Uncle Arthur! I’ve never been on a boat before! You don’t think I’ll get seasick, will you?” 

“I’m sure you’ll love it,” Eames heard Arthur tell him, his voice unmistakably fond. 

Eames glanced up, in time to watch Arthur carefully help Charlie into the boat. 

Because they hadn’t fought their way to the front, Arthur and Charlie were in the very last row of the boat. Eames was supposed to sit up at the front but changed his mind and squeezed his way in next to Arthur. Arthur had given Charlie the side of the boat where the seat pressed right up against the railing. 

Arthur lifted an eyebrow as Eames settled next to him but just leaned over and pulled Charlie back into the boat by the back of his shirt, since Charlie, in his eagerness, had been way out past the railing. “Head and hands and bodies remain inside the boat,” Arthur intoned gravely. 

“Right. Yeah. Sorry.” Charlie seemed to realize Eames was next to them. “Mr. Eames! I have a question!” 

“Ask away, dear boy,” said Eames. 

“I thought all questions had to be submitted in writing at the end of the tour,” said Arthur. 

“All questions asked by _grown-ups_ ,” said Eames. 

“So you _do_ have people working for you,” said Charlie. 

“I do. Not quite a question there, my young squire, but—”

“Where do the people come from?” asked Charlie. 

“They come from…here,” said Eames, a little confused.

“Right, but no one ever sees them,” persisted Charlie. “Nobody ever knows anybody who works at the Eames Chocolate Factory.” 

Eames, after a second, said, “Sometimes, Charlie, the world can be a cruel place. A terrible place. Full of vermicious knids.”

“Vermicious knids?” said Arthur.

“It’s Latin,” said Eames.

“It’s not,” said Arthur. 

“Anyway,” said Eames, “when the world is full of vermicious knids, sometimes people just want a place to stay where the vermicious knids are not. And that’s what the chocolate factory can be for them: a safe place.”

Charlie considered this. “Why do you call them Oompa Loompas?”

“Because they’re too special to just be called people,” replied Eames. 

Charlie looked like he was deep in thought. Then he said slowly, “Vermicious knids. I get that. I know what you mean.” 

Eames hesitated, looking closely at Charlie. Then he ducked down so he could catch Charlie’s gaze. “Then you’re one of the special ones. Normally the vermicious knids are an adult-only thing, but when a child is familiar with vermicious knids, that’s the sort of child that deserves chocolate factory tours and all good things, every good thing the world has to offer. The most special sort of child.” 

Charlie looked at Eames, a little tremulously but also full of hope. “Like an Oompa Loompa.”

“Like an Oompa Loompa,” said Eames, smiling gently. 

“Oi!” shouted Veruca’s father. “Spending a lot of time back there, aren’t you, Eames? Showing preferential treatment?”

Eames barely suppressed an eyeroll. “Not one of the Oompa Loompas,” he whispered to Charlie. 

Charlie giggled, which was what he had hoped to achieve. Charlie looked better. Poor kid, thought Eames, with his understanding of what Eames meant when he said “vermicious knid.” 

Eames turned to Arthur to bid him farewell but found himself caught by Arthur’s shining eyes. _Thank you_ , Arthur mouthed, looking swamped with gratitude. 

Eames wasn’t entirely sure what Arthur was even thanking him _for_. For…being nice to his nephew? That was effortless. Charlie was plainly a sweet kid. 

Arthur cleared his throat and broke their gaze, swiping quickly at his eyes. “Go talk to your countryman.” 

“Just because we both have charming accents doesn’t necessarily make us countrymen.”

“Oh, is your accent charming?” said Arthur. 

“Ha,” said Eames, and to Charlie, “Your uncle is hilarious.” 

Charlie, unexpectedly, _beamed_ , looking up at Arthur proudly, the utmost adoration in his eyes. “I know. Isn’t he just the funniest person in the whole world? I’m always trying to tell him that.” 

Eames looked at Arthur, whose ears were pink again. “You should believe your nephew,” he said. “He’s very wise.” And then he drew his finger down Arthur’s nose. 

If Arthur looked as shocked by this as Eames was by his own impulse, Eames didn’t wait to find out. 

***

They were standing in what Eames called the “Eamesvention Room.” It was a room of absurd ridiculous machines making absurd ridiculous noises. The kids were running around poking their fingers into everything in a manner that had to be unsanitary. The other adults were clearly trying to look in as many “top secret” places as they could. 

Arthur was watching Charlie, who was having the time of his life building a small city out of startlingly moldable cotton candy. 

“Uncle Arthur!” he shouted across to him excitedly, crafting a skyscraper. “It’s your building!”

“I see it,” Arthur said, tipping a smile at him. 

“You’re not exploring,” said Eames, sidling up next to him suddenly. 

“Why would I waste my time looking at your fake, for-show machines that accomplish absolutely nothing and are only here to distract everyone from the fact that somewhere in this factory has to be the world’s most prosaic, completely ordinary chocolate-making facilities?” 

Eames gasped. “You horrible cynic, these are my _Eamesventing_ machines.” 

“You can’t do that, you know.” 

“Do what?” 

“Just make up words by sticking your name everywhere.” 

“Hmm,” Eames said. “I think I actually _can_ do it. In fact, I do it very well. Here, try this.” 

“What’s this?” Arthur asked, taking the paper cup Eames had thrust out at him. 

“It’s a chocolate whiskey. For the grown-ups on the tour.” 

Arthur lifted his eyebrows and looked at the other grown-ups on the tour, none of whom was holding a paper cup. 

“Okay, for you,” amended Eames. “It’s very good. I am determined to impress you yet.” 

Arthur sniffed dubiously at his chocolate whiskey. “What do you call it? Eameskey?” 

“I call it chocolate whiskey, but I like your idea better,” said Eames. 

Arthur laughed despite himself and took a small sip. And, in truth, it was _amazing_. It was smoky and dark, and the chocolate made it impossibly rich, and Arthur involuntarily closed his eyes and kept it on his tongue as long as he possibly could. 

“Are you going to make that noise again?” Eames asked thickly. “Because I don’t think I can keep standing next to you if you’re going to make that noise again.”

Arthur opened his eyes and swallowed the chocolate whiskey and met Eames’s hot clear gaze. His hair was sticking up all over his head in fierce stiff tufts, and Arthur thought how he’d accomplished that, because it wasn’t that long ago that he’d been straddling this man and fairly close, he thought, to getting him off. And _very_ close, he knew, to getting off himself. 

“No,” exclaimed Charlie. “Don’t!”

Which pulled Arthur immediately out of the moment, head swiveling toward where Veruca was in the process of destroying Charlie’s cotton candy city. 

“Hey!” Arthur said sharply, stepping forward. “What are you doing?” 

“Charlie was hogging _all_ of the cotton candy,” Veruca announced, tipping over the skyscraper. 

“Charlie does not have a monopoly on the cotton candy,” Eames interjected. “This factory is full of cotton candy.” 

“You’re playing favorites,” Veruca’s father accused. “My Veruca deserves to have some cotton candy, too. And whatever that poof is drinking, too.” 

Arthur didn’t really register the name because he was busy trying to prevent all-out war between the scowling Charlie and the smug Veruca. He did, however, register Eames saying icily, “What did you just call him?”

“Well, he is, isn’t he?” said Veruca’s father. 

Eames blew his whistle and a couple of factory workers came scurrying over. 

Charlie and Veruca had stopped squabbling, which was convenient, because it meant Arthur—and everyone else—was watching when Eames said to them, “Him,” pointing at Veruca’s father, and then, “Her,” pointing at Veruca. 

One of the workers moved toward Veruca’s father, laid a hand on his arm. 

Veruca’s father jerked his arm away. “Don’t touch me!” 

“Don’t call people rude, insulting names,” Eames responded mildly. “Your tour is over, thank you, good day.” 

“You can’t just—” began Veruca’s father. 

“Excuse me,” Eames interrupted, the tone of his voice like a physical slap, very far from the jocular chocolate-factory-owner he’d been so far. “But I absolutely can, as this is my private property you are standing on at the moment, and as you do not, on my private property, call other people rude, insulting names like that, it is bullying, vermicious knid behavior and it was part of the contract that you signed to enter the factory, so I said, _good day_.”

It wasn’t the sort of speech, or delivery, that you argued with. Not even for Veruca or Veruca’s father. 

In utter silence, the Oompa Loompas escorted the pair out of the Eamesvention room. 

After a moment, Eames clapped his hands together and said brightly, “ _Wait_ until you see what comes next!” 

***

“What do you mean it makes you fly?” said Arthur. 

“To fly,” said Eames, “from the Middle English _flien_ , from the Old English _fleogan_ , akin to the Old High German _fliogan_ , meaning—”

“Shut up, asshole, I know what the word means,” said Arthur. “And how the fuck do you know Old High German?” 

Eames grinned at him. “My accent is impeccable, too, _luba_.” 

Arthur rolled his eyes…and then became aware that everyone else in the room was staring at them. It was far too dangerously easy to forget that there were other people around when there was _Eames_. 

Arthur turned from Eames with effort and said awkwardly, “So it makes you fly…like…that…”

Because at some point while he and Eames had been distracted with each other, Violet had apparently enthusiastic sampled whatever crazy insane drink Eames had concocted and apparently it _did_ , impossibly, make a person fly. 

Because she was up there, flying. 

“Look at me!” she enthused. “Whee!”

“Oh, my God,” Arthur said. “It…makes you fly.”

“Told you,” said Eames, sounding grim. “We are not done testing this drink. You weren’t supposed to drink that!” he shouted up to Violet. 

“Why not? It’s awesome! Works like a charm!” Violet shouted back. 

“It doesn’t, actually,” said Eames under his breath, still sounding grim, and whistled for an Oompa Loompa. 

“How can it make people fly?” Arthur asked in amazement. “I mean, that’s not… Scientifically that’s got to be… What?” 

“It’s extraordinarily complex,” said Eames, “ _extraordinarily_ , and that little girl just chugged it like it was keg at a frat party.” 

“Excuse me,” said Violet’s father, sounding affronted. 

The Oompa Loompas had arrived. 

“As you can see,” Eames said to them, sounding long-suffering, “we have an unauthorized test subject. So you should probably have somebody turn off the fan up there before it chops her to bits.” 

Charlie, standing next to Arthur, gasped in alarm. Arthur looked up, and there was indeed a huge industrial fan circling slowly way up there, and Violet was inexorably moving toward it. 

“Violet!” her father called hysterically. 

“Okay!” she called back, starting to sound panicked, looking at the fan she was floating toward. “I’ve had enough now! I can come down now!” 

“We don’t know how to get you down,” said Eames, too softly to be to anyone’s benefit but himself. “That’s why I said we weren’t done testing it.” 

The fan shut off at the top of the ceiling, and Arthur stopped holding his breath. Charlie, who had stepped closer to him, seemed to relax a little bit. 

Violet bobbed around up there and said, “No, really, I’m ready to come down now.” 

“Fantastic,” Eames called to her mildly. “That’ll happen just as soon as we figure out how to reverse the effects of the drink. Moving on.” He turned to everyone around him on the ground. “Who wants to see how chocolate eggs get laid?” 

“But what about Violet?” her father demanded. 

“She’ll come down eventually,” said Eames. “They always do. The Oompa Loompas will watch her. You’re welcome to wait with her if you like.” 

Violet’s father looked alarmed. “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”

“No one told her to drink it,” Eames said, voice hard. 

“No one said this tour would be dangerous!” Violet’s father protested.

“I believe that I did. At the very beginning. And nothing about the tour would be dangerous if everyone behaved. There have been plenty of free samples. I let you have the run of the chocolate garden. Your daughter will be fine, and maybe a little wiser about taking things that don’t belong to her without asking first. This way, everyone.” 

Eames strode briskly out of the room, followed by Mike and his mother. Arthur and Charlie looked up at Violet one last time, and then at Violet’s father, before following. 

Eames and Mike and his mother were already in the next room, where there was a bunch of clucking hens. 

“They lay chocolate eggs,” Eames was saying, and then gestured at Arthur. “You’re going to tell me that’s impossible but I’ll have you know—”

“Eames,” interjected Arthur, because he wasn’t in the mood at the moment. 

Eames hesitated. Then he looked from Arthur to Charlie. And then he said, “She’s going to be fine. I promise: she’s going to be fine. I lost my temper because I… It isn’t easy, coming up with a drink that makes people fly. It’s a long and frustrating and not usually very rewarding process, it isn’t _magic_ , and I… I’m not especially good at… There’s a reason I don’t venture out. I’m not terribly fit for polite society. I’m impatient with people who assume that chocolate-making is nothing but a lark when it’s very hard work. Very hard work that, if you’ve done it right, people enjoy very much for a few minutes and then go on with their days. So. Forgive me. I’m sorry. But she’ll be absolutely smashing in a couple of hours. And I will work it out and eventually everyone will be able to safely fly after drinking my Eames Flying Drink.” 

There was a moment of silence.

Then Charlie said, “You’re really good at what you do. Sometimes an Eames chocolate bar is the best part of my day. I don’t just think about it for a few minutes and move on.” 

Arthur’s hand involuntarily squeezed Charlie’s shoulder, because hearing that admitted out loud broke his heart. Eames, after a moment, leaned toward Charlie and said solemnly, “I’m sorry to hear that. But it makes me want to work even harder for you.” Eames straightened abruptly and turned his back on them, swiping his hands through his hair and then sticking them in his pocket. 

The moment was heavy, laden with emotion, and Arthur thought of the possibility that Eames was a genius who everyone was constantly insulting because of what he’d turned his genius to, and that, on top of it, Eames was probably a _lonely_ genius, in that way that geniuses could be. A lonely genius who was giving the world extraordinary chocolate that everyone was taking for granted. A lonely genius whose factory workers were all people he seemed to have welcomed who were running from a world too cruel to them. 

A lonely genius who had opened his factory for a day and had people running pell-mell over it with hardly a thank-you. 

Arthur ventured into the leaden silence, “Are they really laying chocolate eggs?” 

Eames made a choked sound that might have been a laugh. “No,” he said. “That one I’m making up.”

“I would have believed it,” Arthur said. “I think there’s very little I wouldn’t believe you could do at this point.” 

Eames, after a moment, turned back and gave him a grateful smile. “Thank you.” He cleared his throat. “Your condescension, as always, is much appreciated, Arthur.” 

Arthur ratcheted their tone back down to banter, relieved. “Hey, you wanted me to be impressed. Eames Flying Drink is a terrible name, though.” 

Eames laughed. “Marketing’s working on it.” 

***

They were standing in what looked like a television studio. 

“Eamesvision,” Eames announced.

“Let me guess,” said Arthur wryly. “You’re going to start your own talk show.” 

Eames laughed. “No. I’m going to televise chocolate. Well, _Eames_ vise chocolate. Can’t get to the shops? Vernicious knids got you down? You can Eamesvise a piece of chocolate to yourself. Think it’s impossible? Think again!” 

“It _does_ sound impossible,” remarked Charlie. 

“Can you Eamesvise Idris Elba to me?” asked Arthur. 

“Ha!” said Eames. “No, because if I could, he’d be coming to me first. The main catch with this that I can’t quite get to work is that you need to start out with something enormous. So Idris Elba would end up being very small by the end of it, which wouldn’t entirely be the point, would it?” 

“Let’s move the subject off of Idris Elba,” suggested Arthur. 

“So you have to start with that enormous chocolate bar?” said Charlie, pointing. 

“Exactly. And then, once you’ve started with that, you end up with a regular-sized chocolate bar in your special Eamesvision set that you will have in your home.” 

“So you’ve invented teleportation,” said Arthur.

“Of a sort,” said Eames. “ _Eames_ portation.” 

“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Arthur, and rolled his eyes. 

“Can we see it?” asked Mike, who had been listening to this exchange very patiently. 

“Absolutely. That’s why I have this chocolate bar all set up and ready to go. Safety first, everyone!” Eames handed around white lab coats and goggles. 

“Very sexy,” he murmured in Arthur’s ear on his way past him after finishing handing them out. 

Arthur gave him a look. 

Eames winked. 

“Behold, Eamesvision!” announced Eames, pressing a button dramatically. 

The big chocolate bar disappeared. Eames gestured all of them over to the Eamesvision set in the corner, where, after a suspended moment thick with anticipation, with Charlie craning his neck to see, the chocolate bar appeared, regularly sized, in the Eamesvision set. 

“Ta-da!” said Eames, looking very pleased, and picked up the chocolate bar. 

“But what is it?” asked Mike.

“What do you think it is?” asked Eames. “It’s a chocolate bar. Here, you can have it, it’s safe.” He unwrapped it and broke it up into little pieces, handing it around. 

“It tastes just like chocolate,” said Charlie. 

“It tastes like _Eames_ chocolate, which is even better,” said Eames. 

“Did you say you could do people?” Mike asked.

“Well, I _could_ , theoretically, but it would mean—”

“Me!” Mike said. “Me! I’m going to be the first person to be teleported!” Mike went dashing over to the platform where the enormous chocolate bar had been. 

“Please don’t,” said Eames. “It really isn’t safe, I haven’t tested—”

Mike, scowling, leaned over and pressed the button Eames had pressed and immediately disappeared. 

“Fan-bloody-tastic,” Eames sighed. 

“Where did he go?” shrieked Mike’s mother. 

“Don’t you understand? He’s being teleported. He’ll show up in a second.” Eames took another bite of his chocolate and gestured to the Eamesvision set. 

Where Mike did indeed show up. In tiny form. Basically the size of Arthur’s thumb. Charlie gaped, wide-eyed. Arthur looked from Mike to Mike’s mother to Eames, who looked vaguely irritated and was licking chocolate off his thumb. 

“Hiya!” said Mike, waving enthusiastically. “Look at me!” 

“You’re tiny!” said Mike’s mother. 

“I’ve been _teleported_.” 

Eames, chocolate finished, blew on his whistle for some Oompa Loompas. 

“How are we going to get him back to how he was?” Mike’s mother begged Eames. 

“I have no idea,” said Eames coldly. “I suppose I’ll have to come up with another stunning scientific breakthrough. Don’t worry, it’s not like it was difficult inventing _teleportation_.” To the Oompa Loompas who arrived, he said, “Take the boy and his mother to one of the houses, I’ll go to the laboratory and figure something out.” 

Charlie and Arthur, silent, watched them all depart. 

Eames sighed again and brushed his hands over his face and said, “Excuse my language, Charlie, but what a bloody fucking day.” He turned now to Charlie, looking very serious. “But did you have a good day? I’m sorry, for all of this nonsense. I hope you had a good day? I hope you enjoyed it? I desperately wanted people to enjoy it, I’ve spent all this time—”

Charlie was good at people, Arthur had often thought, and Charlie sensed that Eames really needed to be told that his factory tour had been a success. “I had a really good day, Mr. Eames,” he said earnestly. “This place is amazing. You’re lucky to get to live here.” 

Eames gave him a smile that looked a little sad. “Thanks. I’ve always thought so. It was very nice to meet you, Charlie.” He shook Charlie’s hand and turned to Arthur. “And you, my lovely, skeptical Arthur.” He shook Arthur’s hand. 

“That’s it?” said Arthur, a little stunned. “That’s the end of the tour?” 

“Indeed. We have exhausted the factory. Well, all of the interesting bits, anyway. And left quite a bit of work for me to clean up after. So I’m afraid I must…” Eames made a vague hand-waving motion. “So it was lovely to meet both of you, it was…” Eames suddenly looked very closely at Arthur. “Thank you,” he said gravely. “I’d forgotten… I don’t get out much, and I’d convinced myself that was for the best, that there wasn’t really anything out there that wasn’t… Thank you. It was nice to meet such a…very delightful person.” Eames cleared his throat and ruffled at his hair. “So. Go off into the world and be happy. Both of you. It’s the most important thing you can be. Be astonishingly happy.” 

And Arthur couldn’t think what to say. He stared at him and couldn’t believe Eames was actually just…saying good-bye? Just…casting them on their way? Really? After…everything? 

“The Oompa Loompas will see you out,” Eames said, when Arthur remained stupidly quiet. 

And then…Eames left. Eames just…walked out. 

“Uncle Arthur,” Charlie hissed at him. “What are you doing?” 

“I…what?” Arthur looked blankly at Charlie. 

“You should have asked him out! He was waiting for you to ask him out!” 

Arthur blinked. “Wait. What? Was he?” 

Charlie looked burdened by the intense stupidity of his uncle. “ _Yes_.” 

Arthur looked from Charlie to the Oompa Loompas. 

“He went that way,” said one of the women, and gestured. “His office is down there. You can’t miss it. It says ‘Eames’ in big letters.” 

“Of course it does,” said Arthur. He looked at Charlie. “Stay here. Behave. Do _not_ eat or touch anything. It’s like a mad scientist’s lair around here.” 

Charlie nodded. “Got it.” 

***

Eames’s door did indeed say EAMES on it in big letters. Big purple whimsical letters. 

Arthur knocked on the door. 

“Yeah,” Eames called, and Arthur entered and Eames went on without pause. “Listen, can it wait at all? I am shatteringly busy and—”

Arthur, following Eames’s voice, came upon him in a curious little living room area where Eames was pouring himself a drink. 

“Oh,” Eames said, sounding strangled, catching sight of him. 

“Why do you only have half of everything?” asked Arthur, staring at the half of a couch and the half of a chair and the half of a television and the half of a painting on the wall and the half of a clock. 

“Why do you need all of anything when you’re just one person?” asked Eames. “I have a whole glass, don’t I?” He indicated his glass of something, and then swallowed it in one gulp. 

“Was that chocolate whiskey?” 

“It was regular whiskey,” said Eames. “Everything doesn’t have to be fucking whimsical all the time. Was there something you forgot?” 

Arthur stepped into Eames’s space and kissed him. Eames, after making a startled sound, kissed him back. It wasn’t as entirely frantic as their first kiss had been. This one was slower and more thoughtful and gentler. _We have all the time in the world_ , thought Arthur, for some reason. _I can kiss him and he can kiss me and we can make each other whole. A whole person with a whole couch and a whole life, not a half of one._

“Liar,” Arthur murmured against Eames’s lips. “That was definitely chocolate whiskey.” 

Eames laughed and nipped Arthur’s lower lip. “I am painfully whimsical. Sue me.”

“I was hoping,” Arthur said, swallowing trepidation, because surely this would be welcome, surely this would be _okay_ , “that maybe you’d like to go for a drink sometime.” 

“Chocolate whiskey?” 

“Any type of drink.”

Eames cupped Arthur’s face in his hands and spent a long time looking at him. “I’m…” he said finally, and trailed off helplessly.

Arthur took his chance. He took the chance he had to take or regret it the rest of his life. “Who I want,” he said, and this had been an absolutely crazy day but that was staggeringly clear to him. “I meet all sorts of people, Eames. I’ve never met anyone like you. You’re…singular. And you’re who I want.” 

“Where’s Charlie?” asked Eames, after a moment. 

“I have no idea,” Arthur admitted. “Somewhere in your incredibly dangerous factory. I’m a horribly irresponsible uncle.” 

“The Oompa Loompas will watch him, and there’s something I want you to see.” Eames slid one of his hands down to take one of Arthur’s, squeezed it, and then led him through crazy, topsy-turvey, twisting hallways. They were passing doors that Arthur tried to look through, catching glimpses of inexplicable things interspersed with what looked like a shockingly normal chocolate factory set-up. 

“I _knew_ you had to have a regular factory in here somewhere,” Arthur remarked as they walked.

Eames huffed a laugh and drew to a halt at an elevator, pressing the button to call for it. “Wait until you see this,” said Eames. 

“Let me guess,” said Arthur. “An Eamesvator.” 

“No, I think you Americans call it an ‘elevator.’” The elevator arrived, and Eames ushered Arthur onto it. 

It was a glass elevator, the glass facing out onto the factory floor. Arthur stood and looked down on it in triumph. 

“Normal chocolate factory,” said Eames. “Are you happy?” 

“My happiness wasn’t dependent on your chocolate factory operations,” said Arthur. “But yes.” 

“Let me show off my Eameslift.” 

“Ha,” said Arthur, “I knew you had some kind of egotistical name for it.” Arthur turned toward Eames and noticed that the buttons to control the elevator were perplexing at best. “But…” he said. 

“An elevator only goes up and down,” said Eames. “Where’s the fun in that? An Eameslift goes every which way. Including…” Eames gestured to a special large button surrounded by golden filigrees. 

“What’s that button do?”

“Press it and see.” 

Arthur considered. “Is that button going to make your dick suddenly spring out of your pants?” 

“Arthur. So shockingly crude. But would you really be sad if it did?”

“Not entirely. Seems like it would be a particularly Eamesian seduction scene.”

“Well, then, keep your fingers crossed,” said Eames. 

Arthur pressed the button, and the elevator shuddered to life around them. 

Eames said, “Damn, it looks as if all of my anatomical parts are still enshrouded by their proper clothing.” 

“And I’ve caused the elevator to start going up. Top floor?” Arthur guessed. “What’s that? A penthouse?” 

“Arthur.” Eames _tsk_ ed and shook his head. “You mustn’t be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling.” 

Arthur cocked his head. The elevator was still going frighteningly fast. Which didn’t make a whole lot of sense because Arthur didn’t think the factory building was tall enough for this. “What’s bigger than a penthouse?” asked Arthur. 

At the exact moment that the elevator burst out into a brilliantly sunny sky and Arthur found himself floating lightly over the city far below. 

Arthur sat heavily on the floor of the elevator and stared out the glass. 

Eames’s voice in his ear purred, “What’s bigger than a penthouse? The entire world is out there, Arthur. You just have to go and grab it.” 

Arthur turned to Eames in amazement. “How are you… You’re a genius.”

Eames was seated on the floor of the elevator next to him, legs stretched out in front of him, looking pleased with himself. “I am.”

“A smug asshole of a genius,” Arthur said, settling himself onto Eames’s lap, straddling him. “It’s much less attractive than you think it is.” 

“I think it is incredibly attractive,” Eames said, “so even if it’s _much_ less attractive, I’m still probably doing pretty good.” 

“Shut up,” said Arthur. “Idiot. Shut up.” And kissed him. 

There he was, him, plain, old, boring Uncle Arthur who Angelina had always said was too dull for anyone to want to fuck him. Making out with a very sexy, very rich man in a flying elevator. 

Arthur, making short work of Eames’s belt and pants, panted, “Thank fucking Christ for your stupid golden tickets.” 

Eames, spreading Arthur out on the floor of the elevator like a delicious buffet he was going to start sampling—which Arthur was totally okay with—said, “Darling, I feel like I ought to warn you.” 

Arthur, in the process of wriggling out of his own pants, paused and said, dread sinking in his stomach, “Oh, no, what?” 

Eames shook his head, divesting Arthur of his pants. “It’s just… Do you know what happens to people who suddenly get everything they ever wanted?” 

“Is this a riddle?” Arthur demands. “Are you asking me a fucking riddle right now?” 

Eames studied Arthur’s erection closely enough that Arthur wondered if he ought to provide some sort of introduction. Then he looked up and said, “It’s not a riddle. It’s a fact. People who suddenly get everything they ever wanted live happily ever after.” That was when he decided to finally swallow Arthur down. 

So it turned out that it was much later when Arthur licked sweat off of Eames’s shoulder and said, “Fuck yeah, they do.” 

 

_The end._


End file.
